I’m torn on my feelings about Hatey, and the Marines being sent there today to protect the estimated 20,000 Americans living there. Why not just pass out 20,000 rifles to them? That’s a pretty big force!

On the other hand, 500 Marines can kill a lot of Hate-ians, and that’s a bonus, for sure.

I’m torn.

Qadaffy is learning to play well with others, even if it is to save his own sorry Terrorist For Life ass. As long as he remains an asset (and believe me, having our own pet terrorist leader is one heck of an asset), I think we should do whatever is needed to prop him up and stabilize Libya.

Nothing like waking up in the middle of a great nap to the sounds of your three year old squawking horribly, and then bursting into the kids’ room to find her standing on her brothers bed, covered in puke, snot, tears, and chunks of salami.

She was screaming that the little shit wasn’t letting her get any kleenex to wipe herself up with and indeed, he had the box hoarded away from her and I went heavily R. Lee Ermey on their worthless little grabastic pieces of shit carcasses and they stared death and mutilation in the face as I began to shriek (in a manly way) for the wife and I picked her snot infested, salami chunk dripping little ass up and held her out in front of me as we launched for the tub and, did I mention she has a cold? Yes, between her bed and his bed and me we were sharing roughly five gallons of rotten tapioca snot she had been swallowing no doubt for days even though she has gone through four boxes of kleenex one after the other as she has to wipe her little button nose daintily if a booger even thinks of dripping out of her…

Fuck me running.

Did I mention the four thousand pieces of postage stamp sized salami chunks? And the partially digested bread? The milk? Now curdled and yoghurt-like and trying desperately to mate with the snot? Strung like Silly-Puke around the room because she didn’t have the sense to stay in her own mess and squawk?

Ohhhhh, and the brother…I warmed his smirking little sister-teasing, kleenex-hiding ass for him, I’ll tell ya. I full-contact smacked his scrawny butt cheeks, and he was grinning at me, so I figured it must be the R. Lee so I turned it off and went into Nicholson and began to act crazy about throwing all of his toys out into the back marsh with all of the snakes and the crocodiles and that got the little bastard sniffling Ha Ha! and I stomped around cleaning up sheets and blankets and bears and clothes and hats and kleenex balls and little suppurating puddles of regurgitant everywhere a staggering little Puke-Bird Sprinkler blinded by tears and salami chunks could deposit them.

Got to hear the wife getting in touch with R. Lee’s feminine side in the bathroom with the daughter…that made me smile…”What were you thinking!! You don’t get up and outta bed with puke on you missy!! Now, Let me hear you say it: ‘Daddy, I puked…come help me!!’…SAY IT!!”